Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

Then Nicole looked up at him in disbelief. ‘The owner is Anna? Wait…you bought the farmhouse?’

      Rigo nodded once, gesturing to the grand old building. ‘It’s kind of her birthday present.’ He smiled. ‘I thought it could be our weekend getaway. Somewhere we can just be together. No housekeepers or chauffeurs. It’s probably a little too extravagant for a first birthday, but…’

      ‘It’s perfect.’ Nicole shook her head, feeling happy tears threaten behind her eyelids. Swallowing hard, she wrapped her arms around his neck. His eyes were so mesmerisingly blue in the sunshine that she almost forgot what she wanted to say.

      He took her silence as a chance to continue. ‘I remembered how fondly you spoke of this place and all the memories you’d made here together.’ His voice trailed off, a strange look entering his eyes. ‘I wanted to give that back to you—even if it reminds me of the time you both spent together without me. A time that I’m not proud of.’

      ‘Rigo, you were always a part of this place.’ Nicole sighed, stepping back and looking up at the picturesque whitewashed facade of her old home. ‘A day never passed here when I didn’t think of you, or talk to Anna about her papà. I had always planned to tell her about you some day.’

      Rigo took a step towards her, taking her face in his hands. ‘I hate to think of you here alone. Cursing me for being such a stubborn fool.’

      Nicole looked up into the troubled eyes of the man she loved with all her heart. She knew he still struggled with missing the first months of his daughter’s life.

      ‘Rigo, our past is only there to pave the way for our future. Look at what we have now—look at the family we have built together. I for one wouldn’t change a single thing.’

      Rigo felt her words soothe the tightness in his chest. The look of pure love on her face made him hold her even tighter as he kissed her. It was one of maybe a thousand kisses they had shared since becoming husband and wife, and yet it was different. With this kiss the last piece of their past seemed to melt away, leaving in its wake only this one glorious moment. She was his and she always had been, from the moment he had taken her hand on that ballroom floor.

      Rigo ended the kiss, looking back towards the open car door as a familiar gurgle could be heard breaking the calm. With a few strides he bent to scoop his daughter from her seat and deftly placed a small sun hat on her tiny head. Anna smiled up at him, her cheeks rosy from slumber. He had never expected for this to feel so right—holding his child in his arms and wanting to spend every moment of every day with her. But once he had given in to the overwhelming love his natural paternal instincts had soon followed.

      ‘Happy birthday, piccolina.’

      He dropped a kiss on Anna’s cheek, wrapping his other arm around his wife. All that time he had spent trying to conquer the world from the boardroom meant nothing compared to holding his whole world in his arms at that moment.

      ‘Cent’anni,’ he whispered to them both. ‘To a hundred years.’

      Postcards from New York

       A Child Claimed by Gold

       Rachael Thomas

       A Debt Paid in the Marriage Bed

       Jennifer Hayward

       A Dangerously Sexy Secret

       Stefanie London

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       A Child Claimed by Gold

       Rachael Thomas

       A scandal of their own making

      Nikolai Cunningham has kept his family history secret for seventeen years. So when photographer Emma Sanders is granted exclusive access to his childhood home, he returns to Russia to ensure it stays hidden.

      Though she tries to keep her eye on the story, Nikolai’s potent sexuality proves too much for Emma’s untouched body to resist! But, convinced she only wanted a scoop, Nikolai casts Emma out, unaware she’s pregnant!

      When the consequence of their recklessness is revealed, Nikolai will legitimize his heir—with a gold wedding ring!

       Chapter One

      NIKOLAI CUNNINGHAM BRACED himself against the icy-cold winds of the homeland he’d turned his back on as he waited for Emma Sanders to arrive on the next train. The heavy grey sky held the promise of more snow and matched his anger that a complete stranger had interfered in his life, bringing him back to Russia and a family he’d long ago disowned. He and his mother had left Vladimir for New York when he was ten years old and the shadow of the events preceding that day still clung to them, threatening to unravel everything.

      The train rumbled into the station and he prepared himself for what he was certain would be the worst few days imaginable. His life was in New York, and returning to Vladimir had never been part of his plans. That was until his estranged grandmother had crept from the past, offering her family story to World in Photographs.

      He’d also been contacted, no doubt because his grandmother had very graciously provided the name he now lived under, but he’d refused. At least, until he’d learnt his grandmother was more than ready to talk and expose everything he and his mother had fled from, probably putting the blame firmly at his mother’s feet. In a bid to protect his mother from their painful past, and prevent his name being linked to the family name of Petrushov once more, he’d had no option but to return.

      He stood back and watched the travellers climbing down from the train, scanning them quickly, trying to remember the image he’d seen of Miss Sanders on the Internet and match it to one of the disembarking passengers. Then he saw her, wrapped up against the cold in true Russian style, only her face visible between the faux fur hat and scarf. She looked about her nervously, clutching the handle of her small case in a gloved hand. She could have been Russian, she blended in so well, but her apprehension and uncertainty singled her out as a stranger to Vladimir.

      Accepting he had to do this and face whatever came from it for his mother’s sake, he pulled his coat collar tighter against the cold and walked towards her. She looked at him and he held her gaze as he strode along the platform, the determination to get this over with as fast as possible dominating all other thought.

      ‘Miss Sanders.’ He stopped in front of her, registering her height, which almost matched his, something he found strangely pleasing.

      ‘Mr Petrushov?’ Her voice was as clear and crisp as a frosty morning, but by contrast her eyes were a mossy green, reminding him of the depths of Russian forests in summer. Why was he noticing such details? She distracted him, knocked him off course, and only now he registered how she’d addressed him.

      Nikolai’s anger intensified. Beautiful or not, Miss Sanders obviously hadn’t done her research well. It had been seventeen years since he’d abandoned the name Petrushov in favour of his stepfather’s name, Cunningham.

      ‘Nikolai